


smoke in my lungs, your lips on mine

by orphan_account



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gang World, Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Friends With Benefits, Group Sex, Hand Jobs, High Sex, M/M, Marijuana, Multi, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Kissing, Recreational Drug Use, Relationship Discussions, Shotgunning, Spitroasting, Under-negotiated Kink, nobody talks they're all very high, or lack thereof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23808955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Brock’s never been any good with rolling papers, but it’s still interesting to watch. It’s especially interesting to watch Brian seal the edge, his tongue peeking out from between his lips to dampen the glue. Brock does his best not to seem too invested in that.—“I can’t believe you lost him. He can’t have gotten far.”“I don’t see you looking for him,” Brock says.“Sure,” says Evan, tossing ice cubes into the chamber, “let me just take a massive bong rip and I’ll astral project onto the streets of Los Santos. Though I guess if you have brownies, he’s probably going ghost by himself already.”—Tyler is not prone to an affectionate high. He’s never been a touchy-feely kind of dude, and especially not since moving to Los Santos, so it makes sense that it wouldn’t be amplified in him. Evan gets the munchies, Fourzer0 and Delirious say spacey dumb shit. Tyler doesn’t cling, it’s not him.When he shares a smoke with people, though, they gravitate to him.He’s like a black hole of stoners. It’s truly bizarre.
Relationships: Brock Barrus/Brian Hanby, Brock Barrus/Evan Fong/Brian Hanby/Jonathan | H2ODelirious, Evan Fong/Jonathan | H2ODelirious, Jonathan | H2ODelirious/Tyler | I AM WILDCAT, Luke Patterson/Tyler | I AM WILDCAT, Marcel | BasicallyIDoWrk/Tyler | I AM WILDCAT, SMii7Y/Tyler | I AM WILDCAT, Tyler | I AM WILDCAT & Ryan | Ohmwrecker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 59





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the 4/20 videos. love these boys.
> 
> reminder: if you are a minor, please do not comment! I won't try to control what you read but it does make me uncomfy to interact with you on an explicit work. thank you!!

“You’ve really never done this?”

“Nope,” Brock says, popping the p. He’s lying on his back, trying to pretend he’s not watching Brian out of the corners of his eyes.

“Well,” says Brian, shrugging, “I’ll help you through it, no problem.” He tips up the last of… well, what is now basically a pile of deep green flecks, funnelling them from the grinder into his papers, and starts to roll. Brock’s never been any good with rolling papers, but it’s still interesting to watch. It’s especially interesting to watch Brian seal the edge, his tongue peeking out from between his lips to dampen the glue. Brock does his best not to seem too invested in that.

They’d pulled over on a layby, on a deserted dirt road, and had jumped a nasty old rickety fence to make their way onto the incline of the mountain. It’s all lush wildgrass here, with thorns if they were to be particularly careless, so the two of them are sat on Brian’s leather jacket and Brock’s godawful sunset blazer. The sun’s creeping down the horizon - almost gone, Brock thinks, and glances at the orange jacket, mentally holding it against the richly indigo skies, whilst Brian twists the end of the joint.

Just the two of them, half a twenty-bag, and an energy drink at Brian’s feet. He couldn’t think of a better or more nerve-wracking way to spend his night.

“Okay,” he says, “I think you’re gonna wanna keep your mouth open a little when you inhale. Do it gently, or you’re gonna choke… Oh, and don’t let the roach touch your tongue.”

“Roach?”

“The end bit, the tip,” he explains, tapping a fingertip to the part he’d folded paper into. Like a cigarette filter. Okay.

“If you wet it, it gets all soggy. Nogla called it ‘bum-licking’, I think.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

“Oh, he is. Cover me?” Brock cups his hands around the end of the joint whilst Brian lights it - keeping the cherry as evenly burnt as he can, despite the evening’s breeze, the man twirls it between his thumb and forefinger to catch. When the cherry flares up, he makes sure the paper isn’t alight, before taking a deep drag. Brock watches. He tries not to flick his tongue over his lips.

After a good ten seconds, Brian lets the smoke billow out in a great plume. It’s thicker and whiter than Brock had been expecting, not like cigarettes at all—

“You wanna hold it for as long as you can in your lungs,” Brian’s explaining, passing it over. “When you think you’ve breathed in as much as you can, breathe in some more, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Brock murmurs, and lifts the joint to his face. It’s a lot easier than he’d been expecting, and for a second, the spice of hot smoke curling past his teeth is a welcome shock. He soothes it by sucking in some cool night air, and does his best to hold his breath.

“Hey, you didn’t choke. Nice goin’, pal.”

He nods. _Thanks_.

It tastes worse when he finally exhales, because now he’s aware of the foul paper burn in the back of his throat. It’s stale, but it’s warm. When he spits phlegm away from him into the wildgrass, he tries to do it in the least gross way possible.

“How come you’ve never done this before?”

“Guess I was hanging out with the wrong crowd,” Brock grins, pulling the tab on his drink. When he lifts the can to his mouth, he can smell warm smoke clinging to the ridges of his fingers.

“You’re getting smiley,” Brian says, and Brock grins some more, and that makes Brian’s lips twitch, and they both end up beaming at each other in amusement until Brian lays himself down on their jackets, cat-like when he stretches his lean body out. Brock’s only in his blue t-shirt, and Brian’s only in his black one, and their short sleeves let the cool evening air brush against the hair on their arms. Brock tries not to dwell on it; Brian hands the joint back, and he takes another toke.

“You feel it yet?”

Brock does. It’s a little like goosebumps are rippling across his skin, as though he’s the readout on an old-timey radar display. The corners of his mouth turn up, pinned there by the feeling. “I do,” he says, after what feels like several minutes. “Have you got a watch?”

“No, but you can count the seconds on your cell phone if you have one of those analog widgets,” is the reply from behind his elbow. Brock passes the joint back as he searches for a clock to put on one of his screens.

“It’s pretty out,” he says.

Brock brushes his hair back, out of his eyes, and takes in the scenery. They’re on the incline of the mountain, so he doesn’t even have to sit upright - the world’s laid out in front of them like a last meal. Thick orange sunlight is curling into thin pink and purple clouds. The grass, when Brock reaches out a hand to brush against it, is soft and cool and vibrantly green. It’s an alien planet, almost - it’s like he’s seeing the depth of Los Santos for the very first time.

“Thanks for taking me out here.”

“No problem,” Brian says lazily. He’s got twilight caught in his eyes, sparkling against his pale irises. “We deserve a chance to relax.”

Brock makes the arms of the jackets they’re sat on link together silently.

The wind seems to nudge the earth in slow motion whilst he watches. It’s surprising how bright it is out, still. Beside him, he’s aware of Brian starting to take another drag, and the telltale scratching of the lighter says that the joint’s almost burnt down.

“...The seconds aren’t moving like they’re supposed to.”

“Cool, right?”

Brock blinks, like he could fix his warped perception of time if he closed his eyes firmly enough. “Brian, it’s dark magic and I don’t trust it.”

“You’d better,” Brian grins, and puffs the remaining smoke in his lungs towards Brock’s face. Brock tries to blow the cloud back, but without substance, he ends up vaporising it.

“Wanna share the last bit?”

“If that’s cool with you,” Brock says, holding a lazy hand out for the half inch left before the roach, but Brian shakes his head.

“Nah,” he says, and sits up. “I mean, like… You know what shotgunning is?”

Brock considers it for a second. “I’ve seen, like, the Vietnam footage with the pipe in the actual shotgun.”

“Oh, we could totally do that sometime. I don’t have anything like that, though.”

“So, you mean,” says Brock, cottoning on, “with mouths and shit?”

“Only if you wanna.”

“Sure,” he says. He’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

Brian digs his feet into the mountainside and shuffles himself closer. “Okay,” he starts. “I’m gonna take a drag and then blow it towards your mouth, yeah? You breathe in when I breathe out.”

Brock nods. Turning away briefly to take the biggest drag he can, Brock takes the opportunity to shamelessly rake his eyes down Brian’s torso - there’s the tiniest gap in the neckline of his t-shirt that lets Brock see past the collarbone, into the hair that starts curling over his pecs at some point. He’s admiring how the lovely black material hugs Brian’s biceps when the man twists back around, flicking his sight up frantically towards his hat.

“Oh, yeah, that’s gonna get in the way,” Brock laughs, and gently removes it. When he catches Brian’s gaze, setting the hat down on the grass beside them, it’s one that darts between Brock’s pupils, like he can’t figure out how to focus on both eyes.

Brock blinks owlishly, and then, without thinking about what he’s doing, he tilts Brian’s chin towards him. The high is already making his whole body feel statically charged, right down to the humming sensation in his fingertips, but it’s nothing compared to how Brian’s stubble prickles lightly against his palm, or the way their dry lips jaggedly catch against the other’s mouth when they meet in the middle. Not quite creating a seal; only just touching.

Brian’s hand settles on Brock’s thigh, and then he breathes out the smoke, very slowly. It turns into a sigh as Brock starts to inhale. The act is strangely intimate - hell, it’s unexpectedly erotic - and he feels warmth settle in between his legs. Brock would probably be horrified and ridiculously embarrassed, were he not a respected amount of absolutely fucking high at present, so instead, he just kind of enjoys it and lets the moment play out.

Brian pulls back, with a dazed look of contentment faintly etched into his expression. Brock points at his own mouth. “Do you want this back?” he asks, letting a plume of scented smoke drift out of his mouth. It breaks that lovely little spell - Brian starts to wheeze until there are tears in his eyes. He looks so absurdly attractive that Brock finds himself laughing alongside, staring at the gathering dampness in the corner of his eyes that he put there. He takes a long swig from his can, and the roof of his mouth, over-sensitive as it is, seems to feel every single bubble bursting against it.

“Can I...?” says Brian, waving at his own mouth. “Got smoke taste.”

“Sure.” Brian’s halfway through a huge sip of his own when Brock says what’s on his mind: “We should do that again.”

“You got it,” says Brian, swallowing quickly and reaching for the grinder, “let me just make up another one and--”

“--No,” says Brock quietly. “I meant… I, uh, didn’t mean with... smoke.”

“...Oh.”

“Yeah,” Brock says. For the second time, he feels like he should be embarrassed, but his stupid idiot dumb face is still smiling and it feels infectious.

“We could—”

“Oh,” says Brian, more decisively, and wets his lips before he kisses Brock full on the mouth. He can feel every ridge of what he distantly remembers is the _lower vermillion_ in anatomy, the red part Brian just licked, like, a second ago, and then he starts to marvel at how his high thoughts are like a river that keeps breaking off into little streams, and then, well - then he’s kissing back, and running his hands over those exposed upper arms, like he’s been wanting to all damn evening. He languidly drags his palms up to the fabric of Brian’s shirt, and runs them back down the man’s side, hoping to elicit some noises.

Brian _whines_.

“Are you warm?” Brock murmurs, against Brian, “I’m warm, I’m so fucking warm--”

“Where?” Brian mumbles back. He knows _damn_ well where. Brock whines, fumbling for Brian’s hand and placing it directly over his crotch. At the same time, he reaches for the buttons of Brian’s jeans, pushing the zipper down with his ring and pinky fingers and finally, finally sliding his hand inside.

Brian’s hip immediately twitch towards the source of the pressure, and Brock’s only too happy to give him more. “Fuck,” says Brian, pressing his palm against Brock’s jeans, “I am _not_ gonna last long, dude.”

“Me neither,” Brock says. He feels like he might be slurring. Everything’s deliriously, deliciously slow - especially when Brian pulls his dick out of his jeans and starts running clever fingers down the length - so he buries his face against the man’s pulse point and huffs. “I’m so turned on... Holy fuck.”

Brian groans. “I gotcha,” he says. Brock’s got him, too. They’re loosely gripping at each other, holding on as best as their thrumming fingers will allow them to. The ring of Brian’s fingers twitch against the head of Brock’s cock, when Brock grazes teeth down the skin behind Brian’s jaw, liquid heat pooling between his hips.

“How’re y--how’re you doin’?”

“Ahh,” Brock says in response. As much as he’d like to articulate it, he can only turn it over waywardly in his mind: the temperature dissonance spreading through his legs is like thickly applied tiger balm, all deep heat and soothing menthol. Like standing in the sprinklers on a hot summer afternoon. Brian’s grounding grasp is like lying flat on his back on the beach and letting the tide crash into his entire body.

_How’s your heart, Brock?_

The errant thought removes the internal, blurry focus away from his chest. His heart is beating a mile a minute, except that in this particular state, Brock’s measuring minutes in an elastic time he has no control over.

He’s not really sure where that thought even came from.

Brian’s knees start to shake, and Brock puts all of his energy into speeding up his hand - as it is, they’re both going much more slowly than they would be otherwise, but it doesn’t stop Brian from chanting sentences into Brock’s hair. He increases in pitch with each cycle: “shit, yes, Brock,” he’s breathing, “fuck yes, get me off, just like that--” And then Brock’s watching in wonder as Brian spills all down his hand, trying to buck his hips further into the heat that tipped him over the edge.

Something in him twists pleasantly, and he has to take in a deep, shuddering lungful of air, purely because his body had forgotten to for a hot minute - it’s only then that he realises how close he actually is, and curls his other hand around Brian’s hipbone. “Bri,” he moans, “I’m gonna come.”

Brian half-heartedly tightens his hand around Brock’s leaking cock and presses a warm kiss to his temple. It’s only a few quick jerks until Brock’s groaning without being aware of it, dripping onto their jackets and the grass below, his body tensing in waves. The atmosphere is crashing down on him, hot rain and storms in July. Refreshing and electric.

He removes himself from where his cheek is pressed into Brian’s t-shirt, and they draw back to look at each other. Brian’s eyes are pink-tinged. His pupils are hugely dilated, hung darkly in the middle of the rings of colour. His mouth is slightly open. Brock kisses it.

“It’s not fair,” Brock says at some point, muffled against Brian’s scruff.

“Hm?”

“Your jacket’s wipe-clean,” he points out. “Mine’s fuckin’ not.”

“What do you wanna do? Jizz on one of my jackets that isn’t hydrophobic?” Brian asks him incredulously. “That’s a very specific retaliation, Brock.”

Brock does his shorts back up. “Yeah, but… It means we could do this again. I dunno.”

In answer, Brian cups the back of his neck and pulls him back in for a deeper kiss. And god, does kissing whilst high feel damn good. Brock's fucking teeth are humming with post-orgasm energy, holy shit.

“That a yes?”

“That’s a yes, _please_ ,” Brian snorts.

“Oh, good,” Brock grins, pulling a bar of Hershey’s out from underneath his blazer, “‘cos now this is celebration chocolate instead of miserable-rejection chocolate. You want some?”

“I don’t know if I can come again right now,” Brian says dubiously, and Brock laughs, and laughs, and eventually Brian manages to tear the wrapper off.

He rolls another joint; Brock breaks off squares of cookies-n-creme. They spend their evening smoking on the mountainside, buried in the wildgrass, and watching over Los Santos well after the sun’s disappeared.


	2. two

Brock’s just spent a full ten minutes in the elevator trying to get to the penthouse, pressing a button at a time until he managed to reach the top. The doors would open - seventh floor - and he would press eight. The doors would close.

Then open again.

Eighth floor.

The penthouse is on floor twenty-seven.

Needless to say, every inch of his skin is buzzing with little prickles when he finally drags himself into the enormous living room, and he promptly lets himself drop onto the couch.

“...The hell happened to you?”

“Oh, hey, Evan,” he slurs. Hot condensation fills the inside of his eagle mask. “I’ve been… y’know...”

_Huh._

What had he been doing?

“If you’ve brought a fuckin’ severed ear or some shit into my clean goddamn living room,” Evan warns, “then I’m gonna give it a friend. I swear to god, Brock, if you value your ears-”

It’s at this point that Brock looks down at his stomach, and sees a bright yellow tupperware box resting on him. Oh, yeah, that’d been it - he carefully moves it before peeling himself off the leather, and makes to stand.

“Me and Delirious,” he starts, and then considers it, and then says: “wait… Where is Delirious?”

—

Approximately fifteen minutes earlier, Jonathan and Brock had stumbled into the apartment lobby.

“Race you,” Delirious had grinned, and immediately began to bound up the stairs. Every other floor or so, he would check the number above the elevator, but it had been safe to assume that Brock had been struggling somewhat with the interior, and would be stuck in the lift for a decent amount of time.

He gets to about floor nineteen before he has to stop running for a second. _Fuck_ , he thinks, clinging to the banisters in the stairwell, _it’s damn hot. No need to run_.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, at floor twenty two. Brock still has the brownies.

 _I wonder if Brian’s around,_ he thinks, hauling himself up the final set of stairs to the penthouse.

—

“I can’t believe you lost him. He can’t have gotten far.”

“I don’t see you looking for him,” Brock says.

“Sure,” says Evan, tossing ice cubes into the chamber, “let me just take a massive bong rip and I’ll astral project onto the streets of Los Santos. Though I guess if you have brownies, he’s probably going ghost by himself already.”

“Nah, we smoked while we were out,” Brock grins. “These are for sharing later.” He slumps a little more in the chair, lets his neck drop so his head rests on his shoulder. He watches Evan sideways, blinking long and slow at him.

“Damn,” says Evan, flicking his lighter absently, “you’re a goddamn philanthropist, Brock.” The lighter has ‘BATOWL’ engraved into it. Brock’s vision can pick out a tiny burr on the base, presumably where it’s sustained a scratch during a job.

Evan flicks it again. The flame flares up like a painted fingernail, and he holds it to the bowl. The bong rumbles with air, gurgling merrily as the smoke chamber climbs to the rim:

“You want first hit?”

“Nah,” says Brock, wondering if the lights have always made that noise, or looked that swirly.

Evan shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says, and wraps his lips around the mouthpiece in a shockingly erotic display. Brock sits up like he’s been electrocuted. Watching hungrily, as Evan vacuums up the smoke and holds it. _God._

“I’m… gonna go see Brian,” he decides. Evan downs a bottle of water, offers Brock the last of it, distracts him- he feels a cool stream trickle down his oesophagus as Evan takes a hit-

“Okay, I’ll come with,” Evan says finally. He puffs out a little smoke ring with the last of his breath. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing,” he says. Brock’s wearing tight-ish jeans today, and he’s never been more thankful.

They wander down to Brian’s room. Evan clutches the bong to his chest like a nerdy high schooler would hug their AP Physics textbooks.

“Briaaaan?” Brock calls, tapping at the door lamely with his fingertips. “I’m high and I lost Jon and I want a hug. Delirious is... probably fine. You should help me text him. And then you should- ohhhh, Evan’s here too, I shouldn’t say that. Brian?”

Evan huffs, and goes for the handle.

The door swings open.

—

“It’s not what it looks like,” says Brian immediately, throwing his hands up.

—

Just slightly before Brock had made it onto the appropriate floor, Delirious had rapped on Brian’s door with the same rambling nonsense.

“Terroriser? Lemme in, Bri, you have nice music I need to listen to,” he says, and Brian opens up to him.

“What do you want?” he says. Then he sniffs the air. “Oh, Jesus, Jon. You reek of weed.”

“That would be the weed,” Delirious suggests, and weasels his way into Brian’s room with rather a lot of elbows. “The reefer. Brock and I got some good kush, dude. I’m wavy. I’m slightly cooked, Brian.”

He flops down onto Brian’s bed - _ooh_ , soft sheets! - and quite enjoys the way that Brian scrutinises him.

“Get outta my room,” Brian says flatly.

“But I’m comfy now!”

“Out.”

“Why?” Delirious whines.

“Because if Brock’s coming home high too, then I’m going to fuck him,” Brian says, in an annoyingly reasonable manner, “and I’d rather not have you in my bed for that part.”

Jonathan drags his hyper-aware finger over lovely, lovely sheet material. “S’pose I should head off, then,” he says.

“S’pose you should,” Brian mocks, and flicks Jon’s forehead.

Delirious drags himself to his feet. But he doesn’t leave.

“And what if I…” he says, then steps into Brian’s personal space: “I mean, s’pose I stayed? What then?”

“Jonathan...?” Brian mutters.

“What?” he grins. He slips his fingers into Brian’s waistband, where his shirt is tucked in at the front, and listens to the man inhale sharply.

“What are you doing?” is the near-silent reply, all whispered and breathy, and it’s doing things to Delirious.

He pulls Brian closer, fiddling with the button on his jeans. “Well,” he says, “I’m here right now, and I’m also staying. I can think of some stuff to pass the time with. And your bed is damn comfy- comfortable.”

“Jon-”

“Brian,” he replies, and that’s when the door opens.

—

“It’s not what it looks like,” says Brian immediately, throwing his hands up.

Brock’s eyes are so wide that everyone can probably see the full circle of his irises. Brown. Unwavering. Delirious’s got his hands down Brian’s pants.

“Brock, I promise--”

“C’mon,” grins Delirious shakily, his confidence resolute and his body jolting with every swaying movement. “It’d be great. Hey, Vanoss, you should come over here too, we can make it a party-”

“What the fuck, Delirious?” Evan says, but he doesn’t sound angry in the slightest. Amused, definitely, but not annoyed.

Brian is fucking terrified, if his face is anything to go by. “Brock,” he blurts out, and then he can’t find anything else to say, and looks like he hopes Brock’s name will hold all the required answers.

Brock’s eyes are black circles ringed in red.

“What if,” he says, slowly, “what if it is what it looks like?”

“Then you’ll be pissed with me and never talk to me again?” Brian offers up timidly.

“Then I, uh,” Brock says. “Then I… I wanna watch. You. I’d wanna… Yeah.”

“You’d be alright with that?” Delirious grins, like the meddling little asshole that he is. “It’d be so good. I reckon we should. Even if you’re watching. You in, Evan?”

“I’m good with it,” Brian nods.

Brock’s turned on, and it’s kind of like his whole body has licked a battery. “Me too,” he says. He thinks maybe he loves Brian a little bit. They haven’t done much except hook up a few times - some sober, some not - but they’ve never discussed being exclusive. It’s understandable that Brian was alarmed at endangering that.

It’s very cute, too.

Evan - very, very slowly - drags the chair from Brian’s desk over, turns it around, and sits on it sideways. “I think I’m just… Gonna sit with Brock for a little while.”

“When you’re ready, Vanoss,” Delirious says cheerfully.

Brian makes three quick strides over to Brock, slides his hands into the man’s hair, and drags him down for a fast, hard kiss. “I really like you,” he breathes into Brock’s mouth. “But I’m also gonna get a blowjob from Delirious, so...”

Brock cuts him off with a bite to the bottom lip. Brian makes a _gorgeous_ low noise in the back of his throat. “Good luck with that,” Brock smiles. “God, I wanna watch you fuck him.”

For a second, it feels like it’s just them there; then Brian’s hands in the small of his back bring him back into the room, and he spots the instigator of the whole operation sat on the edge of Brian’s bed. Jonathan’s twitchy, tiny muscles in his wrists and chin and upper legs jerking randomly and frequently. His knees are ridiculously far apart. He suddenly gives a whole body jerk, his back straightening attentively, and at least has the decency to look embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he laughs, “it’s just… hearing you talk about it is pretty nice.”

“Get comfortable, Brocky” Brian murmurs against his lips, and detaches himself to approach Jonathan. Brock takes the armchair by Brian’s bookcase and lifts his shirt, exposing his happy trail and the button of his jeans.

Jonathan, for all his bravado, is darting his eyes around the room like a cornered animal.

“Fuckin’ undress me, already,” Brian says, and that’s enough to get him back on his feet, pawing at Brian’s shirt until he can rip it from the man’s wide shoulders and fling it without further thought across the bedroom. When it’s out of sight and out of mind, Delirious wastes no time digging his fingers into Brian’s waistband again, pulling him close roughly and mouthing his way across Brian’s neck.

“Should I get high too? To level the playing field?” Brian laughs, watching as Jon scrabbles against the fastener.

“I can’t help it, Brian,” Delirious whines. “My limbs are making decisions without me. Evan. I’m moving like one of those Five Night’s at Freddy’s bastards, Vanoss.”

Evan’s been suspiciously quiet this whole time, and when Brock remembers to look over, he can see the man tapping his fingers against the back of his chair. Like he’s holding himself back.

“You mean like an animatronic?”

Delirious doesn’t answer. Brian’s shoved a warm hand down the ‘v’ of his hips, under boxers and all, and he’s tipped his head onto Brian’s shoulder to hiss.

“Are you okay, Evan?” Brock asks, slightly concerned.

Evan lets his head flop in Brock’s general direction. “Oh, I’m superb,” he says, drawing out the 'e' sound with a thick northern vowel. “I’m getting hit with waves, Brock. It’s pretty nice.”

Brock nods approvingly. They turn back to their show: Jonathan’s finally cracked the code of Brian’s jeans and has fallen onto his knees, helping him out of the last of his clothes from the floor. Brian’s sat on the bed. He twists a hand into the back of Jonathan’s dark hair.

Oh, _wow_. Brock slips a hand of his own into his underwear.

It starts with a stripe licked up the side of Brian’s cock - the man in question freezes up, squeezing his eyes shut abruptly - and progresses up. There’s so much happening, so many sensations that Jonathan’s taking in all at once. The brush of the dusting of hair inside Brian’s thighs against his palms; a thumb stroked against the skin where leg meets torso; what must be the bitter taste of pre against the tense tip of his tongue. Jon mouths at the head with the soft inside of his lips. Brian’s groan is involuntary.

Over in the desk chair, Evan’s sat with his hand in his lap. Brock thinks that maybe his bong rips are kicking in more strongly than originally anticipated, because he’s sat bolt upright, rocking into his hand like it’s an unconscious action. Like he can’t help it.

“Evan?”

It’s Brian who gets his attention. Jonathan turns to look at his friend, sliding off what little of Brian’s cock he’d eased into his mouth, and his eyebrows are in his hairline. A question.

“Oh, god,” moans Evan, “someone fuck me.”

He stumbles into their outstretched hands desperately, already fumbling with his fly and letting Brian drag his t-shirt up. It gets caught under his arms and he flails slightly, a deep frown setting in at the thought of multi-tasking, so Jonathan tries to smooth it down with a kiss.

It doesn’t work. Evan lets noises slip behind Delirious’s teeth, scowling as they move against each other and Brian tackles the monumental task of Evan’s clothes from behind.

“I’m gonna suck you off, Jon,” Evan says, sounding strained as Brian presses touches into his hips. “I’m gonna suck you off, and- oh, _shit_!”

Brian gets his hand between Evan’s legs, and at the same time, Delirious runs his thumbs over his nipples and makes the man’s entire body tense. Brock can see Brian’s fingers come back wet.

“If Evan’s sucking you off, then I’m gonna fuck Evan.”

“Fuckin'- Jesus Christ,” mumbles Jonathan, and lets himself be manhandled onto the bed sheets. He shuffles up against the headboard. Evan crawls between his legs. And Brock tightens his grip just a little more.

“Brian, come on, want you to fuck me.” Evan’s halfway to begging, head hanging in the crease between Jonathan’s body and thigh.

“Fuckin’-- hang on, dude,” Brian grumbles, rummaging for lube and a condom in his bedside.

“You don’t need that shit, ‘m ready, come on, Bri.”

Realisation sets in. A thrill of arousal hits the other three of them, all at once.

“Shit. Well, that’s hot,” Brian says, in a rather higher pitch than normal, “but not whilst I’m fine and you’re high as a kite, Evan, damn.”

“Next time, then, what-fuckin’-ever. If you don’t get inside me right now then I’m starting without you.”

Evan, a sheen of sweat collecting in his dark hair, finishes biting back his surprisingly aggressive begging, and looks up through his eyelashes at Jonathan. Delirious is definitely sweating. He’s quiet and turned on and he’s still somehow got a solitary sock on. Brock can pick out every spot on Evan’s skin and hear every huff of breath escaping from Jonathan’s lungs.

“You’ve got a pretty mouth,” Delirious says.

“Shut up, dude,” says Evan, and wraps those pretty lips around the first few inches of Jonathan’s dick. The reaction is instantaneous - Delirious tries to fight the way his hips buck up into the warm, wet heat - and Evan plants his forearms over Jonathan’s spread legs to keep him still. His technique appears to be enthusiastic, but not rough, which Brock thinks Delirious would probably appreciate, because he seems like the kind of person who’d hate teeth and carelessness in that particular area of fucking.

Speaking of - Brian’s on his knees behind Evan now, and it’s really goddamn hot. Like, a lot. Brock can feel it thrumming in his bones when Brian circles Evan’s hole, oh-so-slowly and dangerously, dampness sticking to his fingertips and muffled groaning coming from between Jonathan’s knees.

“Like what you see, Brock?” Delirious says dreamily. He brushes hair backwards from his face, letting it stick up in random directions.

“Fuck, yeah. God, Evan looks so good with his mouth full. Bri-”

And he shuts up. Brian fixes him with the steady look of someone who isn’t caught up in blunt smoke and dazed fantasy, grips Evan’s hips, and pushes into him.

Evan pulls himself off of Jonathan’s dick and presses his face into his thighs instead, blissed out and full and somehow still remembering to pump his hand as he moans into Jonathan’s skin. Brock chokes out a gasp as his cock leaks suddenly, clearly paying more attention than his dizzy mind is.

“Fuck,” spits Brian, starting to move, “god damn, Brock, I’m gonna fuck you tomorrow, too. Or you can fuck me. I don’t care. I just want--”

And Brock understands - they want, they want, they want. It’s consuming him slowly, like fire eating away at the dry edges of rolling paper, and holy shit, he wants more.

Delirious’s fingers tighten in Evan’s hair, and his head knocks against the headboard loudly. “Evan,” he says loudly, his eyes closed tight but his expression opening up into surprise. His heels dig into the sheets, finding zero traction as they go. When Evan presses his nails lightly into the dip in his hip bones, he comes with a strangled cry.

Evan coughs wetly. And swallows. And then chases after any droplets which escaped his mouth, panting lightly as he does. Delirious might have genuinely transcended, true, but he’s still bound to their plane of existence enough to cover Evan’s hands with his own.

“Fuck, did you just swallow?” Brian blurts, “fuck, that’s hot, Evan, holy shit. Oh my god.” He’s balanced in his movement, strong stokes and steady hips building up Evan into a series of whines and moans. He untangles one of his hands from Delrious’s and moves between his own legs, spreading himself obscenely for Brock and Brian and stroking loosely between thrusts.

“Brian,” he says, his voice cracking, “harder, please, I’m super close--” He dissolves into chants of _ah, ah, ah, please,_ softened against Jonathan’s skin. Delirious tugs at his hair lazily, watching the scene in a post-orgasm haze. Evan spasms, clutching at Jon’s hips with one hand and moving frantically against himself with the other, and then he’s shuddering with a shocked cry.

“Fuck,” Brian says, “fuck, that feels good, _fuck_ , I’m gonna come!”

He buries himself inside Evan whilst Evan’s still riding both of his highs, growling in the back of his throat so hard that it sounds painful.

Brock’s tangential thoughts imagine what the scene would look like if they’d taken Evan’s suggestion of no condom to heart, and he almost bites through his own bottom lip.

“One of you needs to get over here right now and kiss me,” he says hoarsely. To everyone’s surprise, Evan crosses the room shakily to do exactly that, his knees clicking with the change of position. He takes a heavy seat on the edge of Brock’s legs, sprawling, naked, across his lap. When he leans down to crash their mouths together, Brock can taste Jonathan. There’s so much going on - Brian fucking Evan, Evan sucking off Jonathan, the kissing, those lovely sounds and the show they’d put on and the hypersensitive output of the whole fucking world streaming into his brain, and Evan’s got scratchy, fair stubble, and the tang of come in his mouth feels electric. Brock tips over the edge hard, like he’s slammed into a brick wall.

“Shit!”

His voice is gravelly and his fist is fast. He shoots ropes of come in wet white lines over Evan’s stomach. If that wasn’t a sight in itself, a teasing finger circles his tip as he starts to come down from his orgasm, and Brock reacts so violently with the intense arousal that his and Evan’s teeth clack together.

“Join in, next time,” Evan says, just shy of angrily.

“God, yes,” Brock moans.

“Next time?” asks Brian, at the same time.

“Yeah,” says Delirious faintly, “we’re gonna get jizz all over your duvet all over again. Guys-- let’s have a high orgy, guys. I’m feeling it. Not right now, but I bet we could ask the others.”

“Shut up, Jon,” says Evan, and wipes himself down. He offers out an unsteady hand to Brock, who picks himself up, follows, and collapses into Brian’s waiting arms.

“This bed isn’t big enough for four.”

“Yeah, it is,” Brian says, already closing his eyes. “Of all the people to complain about comfort, I would’ve thought your lazy, high asses would be pretty quiet.”

The four of them sprawl over each other. It’s too hot. Brian’s mostly right, because no-one cares.

(In actuality, they don’t do it the next time. Things go south right around the moment Brian dares Delirious to eat a habanero pepper, and the three of them spend the next couple of hours laughing themselves into abs at Jon’s periodic alarm.)

(But the time after that, they ask Luke and Tyler to join them.)


	3. three

Tyler is not prone to an affectionate high. He’s never been a touchy-feely kind of dude, and especially not since moving to Los Santos, so it makes sense that it wouldn’t be amplified in him. Evan gets the munchies, Fourzer0 and Delirious say spacey dumb shit. Tyler doesn’t _cling_ , it’s not him. 

When he shares a smoke with people, though, they gravitate to _him_.

He’s like a black hole of stoners. It’s truly bizarre.

— 

It starts off innocently enough with Ohm, or at least, that’s when Tyler first notices it. He’s bubbly and sweet and occasionally frighteningly merciless, and Tyler genuinely likes the guy.

“This one’s yours,” he'd said, holding the door open for him. “You can do whatever you want with it so long as you don’t fucking trash it.”

Ryan had stared into the room quietly for several long seconds.

“I’ve never had a permanent room to myself before,” he’d mumbled. “This is so cool.”

And Tyler had peered in over his head, taking in the plain, charcoal-grey sheets, the white walls, and the balcony, the bare ensuite bathroom, and the empty fitted wardrobes. It’s not cool. It’s bare, all plain and generic. There’s zero personality here.

Ohm’s overwhelmed anyway.

“Are you, like, _super_ sure you wanna give me this?”

He’d practically poured Ohm into the damn room.

They partake in a hefty online shopping session, sprawled out across Ohm’s new bed, followed by him beginning to half-ass his unpacking. All of his belongings, his whole life, fits in the space of two (2) duffle bags and one (1) box. Tyler really wants him to have more stuff.

He hangs clothes in the wardrobe, unpacks toiletries. Tyler helps him scribble out a list of things he needs, or _wants_. He’s gonna get Ohm _stuff_.

And then- they’re pulling the last few things out of the box and discover Ohm’s stash. That leads up to now.

They’re both on the bed again, passing a blunt back and forth. Tyler’s laptop is open on the desk blaring music, and the balcony doors are thrown entirely open. 

“Does it feel more like home yet?” Tyler asks. The question seems to drool out of his mouth, words spilling over his lips because they’ve filled up in his brain and he doesn’t know quite what to do with them otherwise.

Ryan rolls over, and blinks owlishly behind his glasses. “Maybe with cuddles,” he murmurs.

So Tyler scoots himself close, pulls Ohm closer. He latches on to Tyler’s frame immediately, curls into his side. It’s simple and nice. Uncomplicated.

“Thanks for showing me the ropes, Wildcat,” Ohm mumbles into his t-shirt.

“No problem.”

“… I could still kill and maim you.”

“I know,” Tyler says fondly. The man’s got a reputation to uphold. He wraps his arms more firmly around Ohm’s shoulders.

—

The second time he notices it, Tyler starts to think that mayhaps the crew is just… Like This.

“Got your stuff, bossman.”

“Lunch?” Marcel says hopefully, and vaults inelegantly over his desk to get to the McDonald’s bag.

Tyler holds it aloft, mildly frightened for the safety of his fingers. “Jesus,” he says, watching Marcel tear into the paper like a particularly feral raccoon. “What’s the rush?”

“I didn’t eat breakfast and I just smoked with Evan,” he says through a mouthful of chicken nugget. “I’m hungry as dicks, Tyler. Oh, god, did you get ketchup?”

He fishes in his pockets. A _ha_! Four ketchup packets. Tyler offers them triumphantly.

They’re immediately knocked the fuck out of his hands. “Dude! What-“

He starts to protest, and would have continued, before Marcel seizes his face in both hands and steps into his extremely _personal_ bubble. Before he knows it, he’s been backed up against the wall, and there’s delightful contact against some very sensitive parts of his mouth and dear _god_ , what in the Fresh Hell is going on. There’s a wholeass kiss on his face right now.

“Mur-fell,” he says, muffled.

He doesn’t hear him.

Tyler briefly considers kissing back.

Eventually, though, he decides that this is too strange of an action to spring upon him, and stops the whole thing in its tracks with a well-timed mouth shut.

“Man, I _love_ you,” Marcel says. He’s red-eyed and completely unperturbed, going so far as to beep their noses together before returning to the comforting embrace of his Big Mac.

_Jesus_.

Tyler watches him unpack the picnic onto his very expensive desk.

Time to skedaddle. With a shake of his head, he tries his best to forget the whole occurrence — it’s probably better that way, for both parties.

Fucking hell. Remind him never to try whatever strains Evan offers.

—

“Do you really have to use me as a footstool?”

“Yes,” says Luke, decisive as ever, and adjusts his legs.

He was listening to something — maybe Tyler the Creator, because he’s been stealing from Smitty’s iTunes library recently — but now Luke’s pliant and lazy, stretching out on the couch as though he’s flexing his claws.

“You’re getting ash on my pants,” Tyler grumbles.

“Your pants are a shitty ashtray,” he retorts, and takes another drag of his blunt before passing it over. “You want some?”

Tyler brushes himself down — that’s probably gonna stain, christ — and doesn’t bother calculating how far along he’s already been hotboxed.”Who’d you get it from this time?”

“Gorilla,” he replies. “He always gets the good shit, I don’t even know what it’s called. These days I just DM him and he gets back to me within the hour. It’s _awesome_.”

Huh, yeah. Tyler could see how competence would be something Luke both adores and is not used to in the slightest. 

He passes the blunt back. It’s almost at the roach. “So what are you planning on doing now?” he asks. It’s mostly because he knows that Toonz likes to pull out all the stops while high — he cares about consequences an awful lot less than usual. Tyler’s been in a few rough scrapes because of Luke’s intoxicated wisdom.

“Dunno,” is what Luke says instead. “Feelin’ pretty good. Pretty wiggly.”

“That’s a Delirious word if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Pretty fuckin’ wiggly,” he repeats.

Okay, so he’s restless. That’s not news — either Toonz is tapping his feet and shuffling his shoulders to a song no one else can hear, or he’s coiled and still and ready to strike like a snake that’s been stepped on. Tyler might be able to deal with High Him today, because it’s possible he can direct that energy in a good direction.

Then Luke swings a leg over his other side, clambering into his lap, and Tyler struggles for anything to say at all.

Eventually, he splutters out something that sounds like: “w-what are you doing?”

“You, I hope,” Luke says, entirely deadpan.

God, it doesn’t matter where Tyler’s stupid high hands land right now, it could be anywhere on his body or the couch or himself or the air and he'd still have to throw himself out a window.

“But what about Delirious?! Luke, what the _fuck-_ “

“I already DMed him,” Luke says, like Tyler’s taken two steps to the side from whatever linear progression his brain has already dawdled through. “He’s cool with it. I’m cool with it. We’ve got a thing.”

Tyler sweeps a hand through his hair. “… A t _hing_.”

“Yup. If you have someone else, then say the word and I’ll back off. You think I’d just do this, Tyler?” he smirks. “This ain’t my first Romeo.”

“I think you mean ‘rodeo’,” he says weakly.

“Eh, same thing.”

Luke sits patiently on his lap, staring him down with a degree of expectancy, but still giving him the chance to back out. From Tyler's particular viewpoint, his eyes are misty and red and full of surprises.

Tyler pinches the bridge of his nose.

“That a ‘ _no_ ’? ‘Cos I’ll get off. Both your lap and for my own benefit-”

“It’s more of an _oh, okay, I’ll try it this once, then_ ,” he admits, and Luke grins, and grabs his hand to slip it up his shirt. Ah well. It’s better than being a stoned footstool, Tyler supposes.

—

Smitty is not as sensible as everybody seems to believe he is. Tyler not-so-secretly thinks that he’s fucking sneaky; a lot of the bad ideas that float their way out onto Los Santos’ streets are by his suggestion. All he does is sit back and deal with the fallout, which is usually a few stitches’ worth of hysteria, and several blood-soaked hits on whichever website their shenanigans went viral on. 

So when he ducks into the basement surgery, hoping to get his network updates over and done with before Smit can plant the stupid seed of idiocy in his brain, he’s feeling more than a little apprehensive. 

He’s perched lazily on the gurney when Tyler scuttles in. “Hey, Tyler! Are you high?”

“Nope,” he says. Maybe if he ignores his questions then this can all be over quickly. He adjusts the settings on their VPN until he’s satisfied, and watches contentedly as the download speed peaks. 

Smitty snickers to himself. “Hey Tyler. Do you wanna be?”

“I don’t know,” he says uneasily, “that stuff Gorilla brought back this week turned a bunch of smoke sessions into… something else, from what I’ve heard. I don't even wanna know about that orgy that Scotty fell into across the city, he can get tangled up in whatever he wants when it’s nowhere near me.”

“From what you’ve heard,” Smitty says flatly.

“…I don’t know what you’ve heard,” says Tyler, uneasiness settling in his chest like inopportune paranoia, “but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t overanalyse it.”

“What I heard was creaking couch springs,” Smitty replies, and breaks into a cattish grin.

Ah, fuck.

“I’ll take that toke, now, thanks,” Tyler says drily, and practically inhales half the damn joint when it’s offered to him. “Should I prepare myself for blackmail, or…?”

“What? No,” he replies, “I know Cartoonz and Delirious have an arrangement, you know they do, everyone fuckin’ does. What could I possibly blackmail you with?”

He passes it back. “You’d find something, I’m sure.”

“Hm," says Smitty, and Tyler stares at how he finishes off the last of the J, lighting it all the way down to the filter and stubbing it out against one of the disposable sheets covering the gurney. 

“Is it wise to do that in here?” he asks. 

“Well, no, but I’m not expecting any incidents tonight, so it should be okay. Wanna go down on me?”

Tyler choke-coughs his way through his surprise. 

“What?” Far too innocently.

“Jesus Christ,” Tyler mutters. His eyes are still stinging. This is insane. 

“‘Cos if you’re up for it, then I’d definitely enjoy it,” he continues, suggesting more with his words than with his too-casual tone. “It’s not like we have anything else to do until the big corporate blow-out—”

“Don’t say ‘blow-out’,” says Tyler. He’s starting to get dizzy with exhausted acceptance.

“And I can’t exactly go out and get some until it’s all over. Will you be able to look me in the eye by tomorrow?”

“No,” Tyler admits. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to look him in the eye ever again if he says ‘yes’.

“Are you up for it anyway?” he asks, and in his eyes Tyler sees that same malevolent grin, the one that builds people up until they think they can rule the world, the grin that he grins when he has the records to prove their idiocy existed at all. “‘Cos, if not, then we’re good, you can go. But if you are…” He juts his head up in invitation. “Like, get to work, man.”

Tyler sighs. His heart isn’t even in his faux-weariness - he has to admit, it does sound like a nice way to kill a little time with someone he knows. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, in his default despondent tone.

Smitty kicks off his shoes pointedly. “We’d better hope to high fucking hell there’s no medical emergencies in the next four hours,” he grins, and reaches out to beckon him closer. 

He not-so-secretly enjoys the whole affair that follows.

—

The corporate blow-out actually goes way better than Tyler had expected it to. 

The emphasis really did have to be on ‘blow-out’, too - _it’s a party that we’re exploding the shit out of, get it, Tyler?_ Brock had beamed, and to be honest, he hadn’t had the heart to be sarcastic when there was so much money at stake. 

This is how he finds himself on a ridiculously neon motorbike at three-fifteen in the morning, with Delirious curled against his back. One of his arms is around Tyler’s middle; the other is clutching an enormous gold statue. 

“I can’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“So many reasons!” Tyler protests into the comms. “That wasn’t even on our list to deal with tonight-”

“Yeah, multitasking, though. Future ‘lirious’s gonna thank me.”

“-and you and Ohm sharing space cakes with that guy who launches weird shit into the atmosphere? What the hell were you thinking?”

“Terr'riser was busy! We got the code from him, didn’t we?”

“I guess,” Tyler grumbles. He leans into a corner and Delirious follows. The arm of the statue digs into his back. “I’m still pissed that I got stuck babysitting you, though.”

“Not my fault you’re the black hole of stoners,” Delirious says, and then he points out what should have been obvious: “you could’ve been stuck with Ohm, by the way, and he’s way more touchy than I am when he’s wavy—”

He almost believes he imagines Delirious’s grip tightening, but he knows he doesn’t, and a curling warmth settles at the base of his spine. 

It could mean anything. 

“Are we going back to yours, Wildcat?”

“That’s the plan, yes,” he says patiently. 

Okay. So maybe it means something a little more… specific. 

They curve into the subterranean parking lot, and Tyler leans back against Jonathan’s chest ever-so-slightly as they ease down the ramp. Their helmets clack together, and Delirious’s chuckle might echo all the way through into their parking space, but it might be Tyler’s brain replaying it over and over and over, and he isn’t even high, he’s just panicking in preparation for Delirious’s bullshit.

When they park up, Jonathan doesn’t even dismount. He scooches forwards, into the space Tyler’s left, and hangs his helmet from the handlebars.

“You are an idiot and you deserve to have your things stolen,” Tyler grumbles. He gestures at the statue vaguely. “You want me to get that, or…?”

“Nah,” Delirious says, and doesn’t move.

“...Right.”

“Come here, Wildcat,” he says, nodding in a ‘ _get over here_ ’ sort of motion.

“Why?” asks Tyler, who doesn’t trust Delirious as far as he can throw him.

This doesn’t seem to be the answer that Jon’s after. “Just… come here,” he beckons, because he can’t reach out with a crash helmet under one arm and a multimillion dollar piece of art under the other, “come here and don’t make me come and get you.”

“Okay,” Tyler murmurs. 

He approaches the bike again, but it’s not enough, apparently - Delirious swings his legs sidesaddle and keeps nodding that ‘ _come here_ ’ nod, so Tyler moves closer, and keeps inching forwards, until Jon’s hooking him in with sneaker kicks around the back of his ankles, and pulling him into his personal space. 

There’s ten seconds of difficulty, as Jonathan paws at Tyler’s visor, and Tyler bats him away to pull it off himself, because high hands are unreliable hands. Delirious ends up swiping the helmet from him anyway in some bizarre act of defiance. 

“Cool. You win,” Tyler says, adjusting stray strands of hair draping over his face. “Was there anything else, or…”

“Yeah,” says Delirious. He at least has the decency to look embarrassed now. “You’re still not close enough, Tyler.”

“How much fuckin’ closer do you want me to get?!”

“Oh, at least this much,” he murmurs, tilting his head forwards the tiniest amount. Tyler follows his path. They’re sharing air at this point and Jonathan’s not making even a little bit of effort to advance this. 

Tyler takes the leap and kisses him. 

_God_. He’s gonna kill him for this later. He can’t believe Jonathan goaded him into making the first move. 

Jon presses against him, closed-mouth and sweet and smug. His arms are still utterly useless - one with Tyler’s helmet under the elbow, and the other securing the statue vertically against his waist, like an extortionately gaudy clutch bag - so Tyler lets his hands fall on either side of Jonathan’s face to keep them both steady. The lenses of his glasses smudge against the bridge of Jonathan’s nose, and their facial hair is resisting their movements, like velcro teeth, but Tyler doesn’t care and Delirious probably doesn’t even notice. 

He can taste sweet floury undertones and something bitter underneath, resin-like and smooth. He grabs at Jon’s collar instead, probably too tight to be comfortable.

“Who’s touchy now?” Delirious snickers into his mouth.

“Fuck off,” says Tyler.

They get as far as the hallway before Delirious braces his hands against the front of Tyler’s shoulders, mumbling something laughter-laced against Tyler’s neck and melting them against the wall. He’s left the extremely valuable statue on the hall table next to the keys to Tyler’s bike. It’s a terrible idea for a lot of reasons, but the main one is that it’ll be easy to elbow onto the floor the next morning. 

Ah, well. The crew would just have to deal. 

Jonathan doesn’t seem phased by the imminent destruction of their haul. “This is definitely happening then, yeah?” he asks. 

“It’s a safe ‘ _yes_ ’.” 

“Alright. Just checking. You first.”

“That’s nice of you,” Tyler notes breathlessly. “Should I be suspicious?”

“Nah, it’s just ‘cos I’ll definitely come so hard I’ll pass out,” Jonathan explains, in an unnervingly factual fashion, “and I want us both to have a round. God, I feel like a 3D picture without the specs on.”

Tyler can’t tell whether to be amused or turned on. He settles on both: “you fucking weirdo!”

“I’m all lines,” Jon insists, and then he drops into a wobbly crouch. “I’m like a fuckin… a human bar graph. I wanna suck you off.”

There’s a dull crack as Tyler hits the back of his head against the wall, tipping back to stem the sharp spike of arousal that just impaled him this very second.

“Jesus Christ, warn a guy before you say shit like that, man-”

“Listen, Tyler,” Delirious says patiently, struggling with the button on his pants. “I didn’t even know I was gonna say it ‘til the words came out. Just let the decisions happen without us. Unless- unless you’re saying no, I s’pose.”

Tyler stares down at him; Jonathan’s got kiss-wetted lips and eyes crinkled by weed and pleasure, and hands halfway inside Tyler’s boxer briefs that are almost frozen ‘til he comes to a decision on continuing. “Jon,” he says slowly, “you already asked me this. I think this is a _very_ emphatic yes.”

“Sweet,” says Delirious. He tuts the ‘t’ and pulls Tyler out of his briefs at the same time, licking his dominant hand, squeezing at the base and stroking until Tyler hits full hardness embarrassingly quickly.

He lets out a breath that almost became a groan with a whoosh. “You’re killing me here, Jon.”

“The statue’s watching us,” he grins. “S’puttin' me off.”

Tyler’s a half-second from telling him to shut the fuck up - not unkindly, might he add, just a smidge impatiently - but then Delirious runs his tongue flat down the underside of his cock, and closes his lips around the head, and he finds it hard to come up with anything to say. 

“Fuck!”

“Mmmm,” Jonathan agrees, closing his eyes and lazily fluttering his tongue. There’s one fucking stretch of nerves that spike with sensation and send a streak of heat straight through him.

“This ain’t gonna last as long as I want it to,” Tyler confesses. 

Delirious pulls off, excruciatingly slickly. “That’s okay. I can’t tell right now,” he grins, “this is lasting an age to my brain, so if it’s really fast then this is a great practice run for you. How’re you doing?”

“Fuckin-” Tyler manages to bite out, because Jonathan’s hand is moving but it’s not fast enough, it’s deliciously out of sync and teasing. He manages to use the last of his brainpower to grip at Delirious’s stray hand, curled around Tyler’s waist, before he lets his hips stutter forward into the hot circle of Jonathan’s fist.

He feels the head of his cock hit spit-slick skin again, and opens his eyes in shock to see Jonathan with his mouth wide open, just as he tips over the edge. Tyler shudders his way through a body-wracking orgasm, and Jon catches it on his tongue gleefully, still absently pumping his hand, eventually fixing his mouth around him to coax out the last of the high. 

Tyler takes a quick sec to catch his breath. 

“...Holy shit.”

With some considerable effort, Jonathan swallows, resting his forehead against Tyler’s zipper. 

“You good?” Tyler pants. 

He leans backwards, so Tyler can fully take in his expression, and makes a hell of a face.

“Delirious! Why did you do that if you hate it?”

“Because I just wanted to see what it was like!” Jonathan says, grimacing, and then curls his lip in a thoughtful, yet still-disgusted manner. “Eurgh. That was a mistake. Won’t be doing that again in a hurry.”

It’s possible he didn’t hear that right. Tyler blinks.

“Again?” he asks weakly.

“Well, yeah. I’ll switch it up, next time.”

“Right,” says Tyler, and fumbles with the pull on his zipper.

He feels like if he thinks too hard about being the ‘black hole of stoners’, then he might say it out loud, and that would invite some disgusting interpretations of his horny weed metaphor from the black hole victim in question. So he keeps it to himself.

“Where’s your bedroom? I forgot. No, wait, I’m just gonna look down the hall until I find it,” says Delirious, getting to his knees with a crunch of cartilage and taking Tyler by the hand. It’s thankfully the dry one. “No, wait, hang on, if you’re with me then you can lead. Show me where you’re at, Tyler-”

“Yeah, we’re going, keep your pants on.”

“They’re coming off whether you like it or not,” Delirious beams. 

God, what a dork. Tyler leads him through the apartment to get to his bedroom, knowing full well that Jonathan’s gonna make himself at home in the sheets, and he can’t even bring himself to care about any of the consequences. 

Y’know… Maybe this is gonna be a regular occurrence with the crew.

Holy _shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! thank you for making it to the end. feel free to drop a comment and yell at me. or just yell at me in general. appreciate u all <3


End file.
